


this ain't no hymn

by oceanofchaos



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, American Gods Fusion, American Gods Inspired, F/M, Gen, Post-Season/Series 03, Religious Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos/pseuds/oceanofchaos
Summary: They used to say that America was not a good land for gods, but the Ground is different. On the Ground, all land is fecund with gods. You need gods on the Ground.When they land, it’s all survival and war, and the religions of the Grounders don’t seem like a high priority. There is a chance that this is a mistake, but they don’t work that out until it’s far too late.----American Gods fusion AU, divergent after the CoL. There are consequences for all they've done, but not on a scale they could possibly have guessed.





	this ain't no hymn

**Author's Note:**

> Trigedasleng should be understandable from the context, but translations of any sentences will be in endnotes.

They used to say that America was not a good land for gods, but the Ground is different. On the Ground, all land is fecund with gods. You _need_ gods on the Ground.

 

It was different on the Ark; they never really worshipped anyone on the Ark, all faith and focus went into the future. You prayed for tomorrow, for a return to the Earth, for that distant-one-day of safe landing on the Ground. Not to any higher being, because what higher power could have led them here, could help them now?

 

When they land, it’s all survival and war, and the religions of the Grounders don’t seem like a high priority. There is a chance that this is a mistake, but they don’t work that out until it’s far too late.

 

Belief is a powerful thing. 

 

Transformative, even.

 

———

 

It starts long before they notice it, it starts as the Ark falls from the sky, and the Dropship burns, and the world of the Grounders is changed forever. It starts as stories of the _Skaikru_ spread, whispers across the land, tales and rumours and legends all blending into each other. 

 

In a corridor, deep beneath a mountain, Bellamy Blake slips into the shadows. Guards walk right past him, eyes seemingly skating directly over his hiding place, and he thinks it’s about time his luck changed. He doesn’t tire as easily he should, he stays hidden improbably well, misses bullets and flames and fists with unreal luck, and plans and tactics bubble over in his head. It’s the adrenaline, he assumes.

 

Clarke looks into the eyes of a boy she loves, and slides a knife between his ribs. The next death is easier, and the next, and she is willing to sacrifice hundreds, thousands, however many it takes. In the moment of battle, her blood sings with fire, and their deaths seem righteous in war. After, she can’t reconcile the fierce joyful fire which had burned in her heart and the dead laid out in their lost cities, _Tondisi_ and Mount Weather. She feels like a different person. Disassociation is a symptom of PTSD, she’s pretty sure. 

 

———

 

Lincoln and Bellamy spar almost daily, growing as friends, as brothers. Octavia, although restless as they transform Camp Jaha into Arkadia, seems thrilled that they get along after all. She spends three days pointedly only speaking _Trigedasleng_ to Bellamy until he agrees to learn the language, and so Bellamy and Lincoln end up practising languages as well as fights. 

 

Bellamy helps to expand Lincoln’s English vocabulary through stories, the history he can remember, the myths. Lincoln starts Bellamy off on more basic lessons, basic grammar and vocabulary, but the more the lessons progress, the more Lincoln uses them as an excuse to enlighten Bellamy on Grounder culture.

 

“ _Osir_ , um, _vout don in gon fali tri_ ,” says Bellamy, as they walk a perimeter of the Camp. “Do you have a verb for praying?”

 

Lincoln smiles slightly at his broken attempts. “We have many verbs, depending on the type of prayer, but generally speaking, you were close: ‘ _vout in_ ’ is ‘think’, ‘ _vout au_ ’ is ‘pray’.”

 

“ _Beja, tel ai op, ticha_ ,” teases Bellamy, and although Lincoln talks and talks of spirits and gods, both local and those he’s only heard of vaguely in his travels, Bellamy doesn’t truly grasp their significance. Later, all he will remember is that Lincoln was named after the guardian of the _Trikru_ , a local god of _Tondisi_ , a protector. 

 

(When he places Lincoln’s cold, dead body on the funeral pyre, he will remember this, and think bitterly on the protections offered by gods.)

 

———

 

Clarke lies in Lexa’s bed, arm curled warm around her waist, and the moment is so bittersweet. 

 

“It’s hard,” says Lexa, faultingly, “Trying to be everything they need. Each of their wishes changes you.” Faulting, but fierce. She’s facing Clarke, and she looks deep into Clarke’s eyes, seemingly trying to force understanding through sheer force of will. “You become what they hope, whatever they hope. It changes you, until you don’t know who you are anymore. You become _theirs_.”

 

And Clarke, who has always borne the weight of other people’s expectations, whose parents were Councillors, who took up the mantle of a leader on the Ground, who’s always been overwhelmingly aware of her responsibilities, Clarke nods. She thinks she gets it. “You become whatever they need, until you can’t tell where you end and their needs begin.” It’s what being a leader is, she thinks. Even with shared responsibility, the duties of being a leader pay a heavy toll on your sense of self. 

 

Lexa agrees, almost relieved that Clarke understands.

 

(Clarke doesn’t get it, but she doesn’t know that yet.)

 

———

 

Octavia had cut Indra down from her cross, but needs dictated her travel; the world is still in danger, there’s only a very little percentage of land that will be safe from the fallout, and she cannot just take Indra and wander the plains to her heart’s content. Pointing that out doesn’t go down very well.

 

Bellamy takes opposing guard shifts to her, tries to limit their time in each other’s presence. He can still see the pain and vitriol in her eyes when she looks at him, and the bile rises in his throat.

 

He’s scouting in the woods near the old _Trikru_ villages, when he sees a figure in the trees. He tries to follow after them, because they’re trying to relocate everyone to the new, safe encampment, but it’s like chasing a shadow. He bursts through a clearing, and it’s empty, but there’s movement in the trees ahead. 

 

It’s just a split second, but he sees their silhouette, and knows them instantly.

 

“ _Lincoln?_ ”

 

The figure dissipates. 

 

When Clarke finds him, as Clarke accompanies him on all his shifts these days, never strays too far, he is retching, over and over, and wiping tears from his eyes.

 

She tries to ask him what happened, but he shakes his head, and it isn’t until that evening, sitting in a circle with their friends, slightly drunk, that he says he thinks he saw Lincoln. His ghost. Whichever. His voice is still rough and scratched from retching, from crying.

 

“It was like the hundreds who died in the culling on the Ark, but more real. No jobi nuts, no logical explanation, just. Lincoln. Walking in the woods.”

 

“That’s what you saw on the jobi nuts?” asks Raven, as Monty and Miller exchange a glance, “The victims of the culling?”

 

Bellamy sounds wrecked when he confirms this.

 

“This is a good land for ghosts,” says Clarke quietly, in the following silence. Bellamy catches her eyes, and she elaborates, “Finn followed me for a week.” They all hold their breath. “He was as real as any of you, it felt like. Mostly he just watched me, but sometimes we talked. Fought.” She ducks her gaze, takes a sip of her drink. “This is a good land for ghosts.”

 

It isn’t, particularly. The dead are gone. The living are hungry. The gods are ravenous.

 

———

 

When she became _Fleimkepa_ , Clarke thought she understood the Grounders’ view of their Commander, started to grasp the religious significance behind the role of _Heda_. Their worship of their _Heda_ is almost incomprehensible, coming from a society which doesn’t pray to anything but the idea of safe return. The fervour of the Grounders, the religious possession by which they understand the Flame is surreal to those who understand the science behind AI. Murphy is the Arker who has seen the most of their religion, so she had tried to talk it through with him, but privately it still holds a level of unreality for Clarke. No wonder Lexa felt so pressured, she thought, when they all literally prayed to her.

 

“It’s not unlike pharaohs,” says Bellamy, when she asks him what he thinks of Grounder religion, on their way to the first failing nuclear station, “Or the Sun Kings of Mayan civilisation. Rulers who were also chosen ones, believed to be literal deities on Earth.”

 

“Sounds like a lot of responsibility,” says Clarke dryly, and relishes his huff of laughter.

 

“Yeah, but they were gods, so it sort of worked out pretty well.”

 

“Yeah,” says Clarke dryly, “Because when have the gods ever fucked things up?”

 

“Point,” grins Bellamy, and neither of them consider who really chooses the chosen ones. Belief is only ever as strong as its believers. 

 

———

 

For the people of the Twelve Clans, the Commander is the supreme object of worship; _Beka_ fell from the sky and talked of hope, and when she died the Flame passed on to someone else, and the spirit possesses each new _Heda_ in turn, and while the people chosen by the Flame aren’t Gods themselves, they are possessed, consumed, one with the Commander. Each Commander is new, and each Commander is the same as the last, and they are all worthy of respect, of devotion, of prayer.

 

A.L.I.E. was an AI, trying its best to save the world, at whatever cost. To the people of the Twelve Clans, _Alei_ was a false idol, a false god, a demon who stole the form of the original _Heda_ , and possessed the Clans, and wrought their destruction. The fight between Good and Evil was writ large in the battle of the City of Light, as _Heda_ and _Alei_ battled for the lives and souls of the people. Some died but most lived, due to the sacrifice of their God, her life for theirs; the Flame went out, but the Clans were saved. The extinction of a god, with all its worshippers as witness.

 

In the wreckage of their culture, their society, their way of life, stand the Sky People. Fell from the sky, and fought against _Alei_ , and mark the dawning of a new era. The Ground is sick, and the people will perish, but the Sky People have a plan. They offer hope.

 

Ragnarok is over, and a new pantheon must arise.

 

———

 

They don’t have much time, but they have enough. They’ve managed to salvage three of the failing nuclear plants, and although the others are beyond repair, they’ve increased both time and habitable land. They’ve salvaged a large piece of land in the West and Northwest of what was once the United States of America, working with the survivors of the City of Light, the survivors of _Polis_. There’s almost half a year before the the fallout should make it inviable to survive outside their new encampment, which should be more than enough time to build a sustainable, survivable society. They’ve done it before. Now they travel from settlement to settlement in roving packs, from country to country, and warn whoever will listen. Send them West to their new home, Terra, a city of refugees from around the world.

 

Bellamy and Clarke’s team have found their way South to dusty red rocks, a dry constant heat, and the endless yellow grass plains of the _Ingranrona_ , the Plains Riders. They prove a lot more friendly and a lot more colourful than the _Trikru_ , and Clarke mentions in an aside to Bellamy how much she wishes that the 100 had landed around here. He laughs, and pokes her sunburnt nose.

 

Having met with the leaders, they were able to persuade them of the truth of their words; representatives from the _Boudalan_ , Rock Clan, have joined their team, to assure that they speak honestly, to ensure as many people survive this as possible. The caravan town is aways prepared to move at a moment’s notice, so all that’s left is practicalities, the kind of details that Clarke feels she can bow out of these days. She’s better at bigger picture thinking, anyway. Now Bellamy supervises the plan for the relocation of the _Inganrona_ people, suggesting safe routes to Terra, asking for recommendations of the fastest routes to the next set of people they have to warn. Meanwhile, Clarke sits in the sun with the children of the town they’ve been staying in.

 

Although they speak a new variant of _Trigedasleng_ , she can understand most of it well enough, and when words fail her, an eager teenager translates her English. The children’s questions are relentless and rapidfire, and it’s all Clarke can do to keep up, answering every third at best.

 

“Was it blue?” asks her translator, Sam, at most fourteen and already semi-fluent in the language of warriors. 

 

“Huh? Was what blue?”

 

“Where you lived. _Skaikru_ , right? Is the sky blue up there?” elaborates Sam, barely reining in how unimpressed she is that Clarke didn’t follow her meaning.

 

“Oh, no,” says Clarke, “It was black. Full of stars. The night sky.”

 

“The stars?” checks Sam, and Clarke nods, waiting as Sam translates to the younger children.

 

The children around her chorus “ _stas_ ” in awe, and she can’t help a smile, as she sees Bellamy approach them, bemused to find her telling stories to children.

 

“Can’t you tell we came from the stars?” she asks, and though she’s nominally addressing her audience, she keeps her eyes on Bellamy. “Look at Bellamy, he’s made of stars.”

 

He smiles wryly, “Most people just call them ‘freckles’, you know.”

 

“ _Belomi, em laik stas_ ,” says Sam reverentially, and even the adults in the square go hushed. 

 

“Is there even a word for them in _Trigedesleng_?” Clarke asks Bellamy, thinking nothing of it.

 

“Hey, I thought you were the fluent one…”

 

———

 

Of course, for the majority of the Ground, Becca Pramheda never fell from the skies, promising salvation. For the majority of the Ground, there are gods and demons and spirits aplenty already. But then the crops start to wither, and people of the stars appear, offering a new land, safety, peace. They are kind and caring and trying their best to protect the whole world.

 

And as they travel the world, with their message of radiation, of a safe haven, so do the rumours of the _Skaikru_. The stories of what has passed spread and grow, and their feats take on a legendary character. As more people arrive in Terra, more stories are told, and now there are stories of warriors and stories of healers, stories of bloodshed and dancing and war and laughter and everything in between. And still the stories grow.

 

There is no culture in which people falling from the stars is deemed insignificant.

 

———

 

In time, they have to return to Terra, having travelled for months across all the ground they could, standing at the southernmost tip of the land, a continent and a half away from home. Monty and Raven assure them over their makeshift satellite phone that messages have been sent, received, acknowledged across the world. From continent to continent, people are coming to Terra, and the final hope for habitable land and a functioning society. 

 

Some days are weird, and the world feels hazy, and Clarke feels the blood singing in her veins (feels the bloodlust). Some days she feels a sense of peace so strong that she thinks she could float off with it. Either way, Bellamy stands beside her, holds her hand, keeps her grounded.

 

Some days he’s shifty and doesn’t make a sound as he walks and there’s a fierce, hard anger behind his eyes. Some days he’s particularly affectionate, takes small detours to find new plants, or spends all day telling tales to the children of the _Southron_ people whom they travel with. No matter which, Clarke stays close, offers whatever support he wants, tethers herself to him. 

 

They’re both changing, apart from when they aren’t, and they can’t explain it.

 

———

 

Clarke had been having a bad day, the ever-present weight of all her sins just _gone_ in a way which makes her weightier. She paces their caravan train, restless energy, spoiling for fight with the anger that’s bubbling over under her skin.

 

Bellamy drags her to the caravan that serves food and drink, ignoring all of the barbs she throws to provoke him. He sits her down, and though she knows she doesn’t have to obey him, her trust in him is so ingrained, and she knows he’s going to do his best to settle her. He makes her mint tea with fresh leaves, and sits beside her, close and warm at her side. She still feels like her skin is too tight, but she makes herself breath, deep and slow.

 

As is inevitable, someone asks him for a story, and he chooses the story of Clarke. 

 

It’s a tale of sacrifice, of risking everything to protect the many, of healing and helping and saving. They know each other inside and out, their lives written indelibly onto each other’s skin, and Clarke is still surprised somehow that he can see her like this. He embellishes, makes her seem fantastical, but it’s still _her_ , it’s still how he sees her.

 

“The lighting cracked down into the camp, and the whole world seemed to shake, and she plucks the dagger out of his chest, and heals him from a blow to the heart which should have been fatal,” says Bellamy dramatically, and as the crowded circle which has gathered around them gasps and murmurs, Clarke feels herself get lighter and lighter. Her blood subsides in her veins, and she is no longer hot with anger, but warm with fondness.

 

He finishes not with the City of Light, but her determination to find a solution, her faith that they would find a solution, travel the land, and save as many as they could. 

 

“Together, Bellamy, always together,” she says lowly, and although it’s meant as an aside, their gathering had fallen quiet at that moment. Bellamy looks like he’s forcing down a blush, and Clarke feels infinitely better than she had this morning, so she doesn’t try to hide the affection in her voice. “Let me tell you a story,” she implores of the group, “Of a protector, a brother, and a leader.” Bellamy rolls his eyes at her, but his smile is private and soft.

 

———

 

Some days Bellamy sinks into his thoughts. He starts by thinking about the different factions in the Twelve Clans, the instability that ran through all the interactions in Terra last time he was there. He thinks about _Azgeda_ and _Flokru_ in particular, as they seem to represent the base levels of the opposing schools of thought in Grounder culture. On days like this, he will forget to eat unless Clarke prods him, will let the possible conflicts and debates play out in his head, over and over until it’s dark. Or he’ll call Raven and ask for information, make sure he’s fully informed about the tensions in the newly built Terra. Ask question after question, until Raven insists on hanging up so she can get some work done. 

 

Sitting in a wagon, deadly still, he barely seems to inhabit his body. Clarke is useless on days like this, distracted and frenetic with her sense of helplessness. She tries to hold conversations, to distract herself, but her eyes inevitably are drawn to wherever he sits, silent and still. Soon, the rest of their group know that if Bellamy is crosslegged and lost in his thoughts, there is little point trying to interact with Clarke. Now, whenever he disappears inwards, they send someone straight to tell Clarke, no matter what patrol she’s on, how little she’s slept.

 

She sits next to him, and holds his wrist, fingers finding his pulse for her own reassurance. She forces him to drink water, to eat nuts or dried fruit. Sometimes she tells him about herself, or recites all the bones in the body that she can remember. Sometimes she asks him to tell her what he’s thinking, and listens as he breaks down the different relations between the Grounders they know of, or tries to predict the next conflict. He plots and plans, coming up with contingency after contingency, until his throat is hoarse and his brain lets him go. She sits next to him, keeps count of his heartbeats.

 

———

 

As they approach Terra, the leaves of the trees seem to rustle with breezes which aren’t blowing. One night, taking an extra shift, Clarke sees a familiar shadow in the woods nearby. She raises a hand in greeting, and smiles as she sees it reciprocated. 

 

“Who was that?” asks Tomac, one of their _Boudalan_ friends.

 

“Oh, just. Lincoln.” She feels silly, as she says it, but he was her people, and of course she recognised him, never mind that it’s been months since they burned him.

 

“ _Linkon kom Trikru_?” His voice is hushed, but there are people sleeping all around them, so Clarke doesn’t think anything of it.

 

“Yeah,” she says, equally soft. “Bellamy saw him a few times before we left, but he hasn’t been travelling with us.” She’s matter-of-fact. On the Ground, ghosts just don’t seem very improbable. On the Ark, this conversation would never have happened. 

 

Tomac is silent for the rest of the watch, and as Clarke watches the woods, she misses his wide eyes, his careful stares. 

 

———

 

In Terra, there are more immediate problems than even the threat of imminent nuclear winter. Although Roan had easily joined the new civilisation, becoming a member of the council along with elected representatives from each society which came to the city, a faction of _Azgeda_ , still loyal to the late queen, have been threatening to take the habitable land by force; all those who swear allegiance to _Azgeda_ will be spared, they say, all others will suffer the consequences.

 

“It feels like we’re always going to be fighting,” says Clarke to Bellamy, as they stand at the head of the battlefield, waiting for the enemy troops to arrive.

 

“Let’s just get through this one fight,” says Bellamy, and they both try not to think on the inherent truth behind Clarke’s words.

 

Behind them, Grounders’ voices raise in ululation, sweet smokes from oddly coloured pyres rise on the winds, and with it comes that familiar boiling of Clarke’s blood, that heavy calm which settles on Bellamy’s shoulders like a mantle.

 

They look out over the battlefield, and it feels like they’ve done this a thousand times before, like they’ll do this a thousand times more. They look behind them, and watch the pre-battleground rituals of their new citizens. The smearing of blood or ashes, the chanting, the prayers.

 

“What are they doing?” asks Clarke, though she can feel the answer in her bones.

 

“They pray to their war gods,” replies Roan, the wind blowing his hair in the breeze, almost obscuring his half-smile.

 

“They pray to you,” says Luna, and it sounds like a condemnation, like praise.

 

The rebel _Azgeda_ can be seen now, massing at the other end of the field. They are vastly outnumbered, can’t possibly hope to win, but they refuse to accept the end of the life and culture they have always known. It’s a principle the _Skaikru_ can understand.

 

“What do you mean?” asks Bellamy, but he too seems to know the answer truly hides in his own soul.

 

“They pray to _Troujan_ and _Wanheda_ ,” says Roan, slyness threaded through his voice, watching for their reactions, “New gods.”

 

Luna cuts a glare his way. “Don’t mislead them,” she chides, turns to face them head on and steady, “They pray to _you_.”

 

———

 

When the battle is won, and the enemy buried, Clarke and Bellamy sit in a bar. They have washed the blood from each other’s faces, but the cuts remain. With the Grounders’ integration into Terra came a host of new resources, new recipes, and so they sit in a room lit by candles, a carafe of honey wine on the table between them. For people who’ve grown used to the bitterly alcoholic taste of homemade moonshine, mead is overly sweet, achingly so, but each sip seems to rejuvenate them.

 

It’s either too late to be up, or too early, and their friends have all retired to recover from the exhaustion of the battle, but they sit and watch the candlelight flicker over each other’s face.

 

“What kind of culture needs two war gods?” asks Clarke, and it’s a little tired, and a little amused. Like they’re in on a joke that no one else can appreciate is funny. (Soon enough, and this will be true. They may not be in on the joke just yet, but they’re close.)

 

Bellamy’s smile is crooked with rue. “The Ancient Greeks, for a start.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Ares and Athena.”

 

There’s a pause, as he sips his mead, and Clarke rolls her eyes at him.

 

“Why? Why bother?”

 

“Didn’t you pay attention in History and Culture lessons?” teases Bellamy, and continues on before she can kick at his ankles, “They served two different purposes. Ares was the god of the fight, of the battlefield. Athena was a goddess of wisdom, of battle tactics and warfare.”

 

“One for fighting, and one for being smart about it,” decides Clarke, “So _Wanheda_ and _Troujan_?”

 

“Ares and Athena,” he agrees, “Sorry. This means I’m the smart one. It’s official.”

 

She laughs at him, because if they can’t laugh over this, what do they do? They clink their glasses, and silently wonder how they got here. They sit in companionable silence for a while, trying not to dwell, failing to do anything else. Refilling their glasses.

 

“Do you know where ‘ _Troujan_ ’ came from?” asks Bellamy eventually. Indra, Luna, and Monty had explained the origin of the new deities, how the stories had become legendary during their travels, tried to be sensitive to the surrealism which accompanies being told that you have become an object of worship. Raven and Roan had poked fun at them, and as much as the whole thing feels like a terrible joke, Clarke can’t help thinking it would be funnier if they weren’t known for their destruction.

 

“Mount Weather,” she says, and huffs in amusement at the look Bellamy gives her.

 

“Yeah, they covered that. I meant the actual name.”

 

“ _Troujan stelt gona_ , _Troujan spai_ ,” she muses, “You were our spy in the mountain, Bellamy. Our Trojan Horse. That was the plan, remember.”

 

His laughter is dry. “They’ve forgotten Troy,” he points out.

 

“But they remember you,” she says, although she doesn’t fully appreciate the depth of her point yet.

 

———

 

The newer arrivals to Terra, those who never so much as traded with the Twelve Clans, have different stories, and different perspectives. They bring different gods. It’s one thing to be told of _Wanheda_ , hear the tales of her kills, but a very different thing to be told that she is one and the same with the gold-haired healer who came to town desperate to save as many as possible. To hear that _Troujan_ of the shadows, who snuck through the _maun_ , struck from the shadows, killed with speed and stealth is the same man who came to their homes and promised to help, who played with their children, and carried their injured on his shoulders.

 

The stories conflict, adapt. 

 

———

 

It’s not quite penance, but Bellamy finds himself working more and more with children, and by proxy so does Clarke. Initially a school doesn’t seem like a key priority, but after their success against the rogue _Azgeda_ , the battles with rogue factions are halted, at least temporarily. The issue then is that building a sustainable and functioning society, and only then creating the institutions to maintain the ideology of that civilisation, is a method that has been tried and proven to fail. That focus on survival, that willingness to put off morality and equality and ethics to deal with later is the problem they hit last time. Bellamy won’t make the same mistakes as his teacher, as their last attempt at society. Pike is dead, and Arkadia is dead, and it’s time to rewrite past sins. As such, Bellamy helps the representatives to set up a school with a balanced curriculum, including lessons on each differing society’s way of life. He’s not a full time teacher, just subs in occasionally, but somehow being around the smiles of children helps to mask the scent of the incense they burn in worship to _Troujan_.

 

Clarke works on amalgamating Grounder knowledge of medicine with that of the Ark, teaches first aid, remains on hand at the school for minor injuries, for a shoulder to lean on. She joins in during art lessons, and does practical demonstrations with plants they’d learnt about in Earth Skills. She stays close, and smiles at him, and tells any of the children who ask what she’s doing there that she’s his partner, and they’ve been apart too many times, and that she’s making sure they stay together this time.

 

“How would you feel about going for a walk?” asks Clarke, after his final class; it’s a Tuesday, and as such Bellamy’s been teaching the pre-bombs history that the Ark had saved. The afternoon light is warm and golden, the sun won’t set for hours, and Clarke looks up at him with fondness. It’s been a good day.

 

“A walk sounds nice,” he says, and they set off into the woods, silence companionable, the backs of their hands brushing.

 

They make it deep enough that they can’t hear any sounds of living, not human, not even bird. The green silence presses in, the dappled sunlight feeling almost heavy. Transcendent.

 

A wind whips through the trees suddenly, chilling them, curling bright green leaves around them, settling just as quickly into total stillness.

 

“Finally,” says a voice behind them, “I was beginning to think I was going to have to walk into the middle of town.”

 

They spin around, automatically falling into defensive positions, hefting weapons.

 

“Lincoln?” 

 

He stands before them, tall and broad and _alive_.

 

“I don’t understand,” says Bellamy hesitantly, “Clarke, you–“

 

“I see him too, yeah,” confirms Clarke, keeping her knife raised, even as Bellamy lowers his gun.

 

“What a warm welcome,” says Lincoln, dry, and takes the few steps to Bellamy’s side, claps him on the shoulder. “ _Hei, lukot_.” 

 

Bellamy visibly flinches under his touch before clasping Lincoln’s arm, pulling him in so that their foreheads rest together. Taking a deep breath, he takes a step back, pulls himself together. “How? You were. You were dead. Killed. I saw your body. We _burned_ your body.”

 

“I _am_ dead,” concedes Lincoln, “And I am more alive than I ever was.”

 

“Well that really clears things up,” says Clarke dryly, watching tears trickle from the corners of Bellamy’s eyes. Both men snort in laughter at her impatience, her steadfast teasing in the face of the mystical.

 

“I really thought you would have figured things out by now, to be honest,” admits Lincoln, smiling at Clarke’s over-exaggerated eye roll. “Were you not listening when I told you our stories, Bellamy?”

 

“I have no idea what’s happening, but for once I really don’t think this one’s on me,” deadpans Bellamy, and then, like he can’t help himself, “Which stories? Are you really alive? Have you told Octavia yet?”

 

“Who was _Linkon_?” asks Lincoln, voice serious and solemn.

 

Although Clarke and Bellamy exchange a look, the more he thinks about it, the more Bellamy starts to understand. It seems impossible, but.

 

“ _Linkon_ was a local god of yours. A protector. It’s who you were named after,” he says, encouraged by the warmth in Lincoln’s eyes. “That statue, of the man on the chair, who watched over _Trikru_ , and was thought to fight on their side in their protection.”

 

“That’s who he was,” agrees Lincoln, and in his voice is the rustling of leaves, the multilayered echoes of the forest, the strength of the earth. He doesn’t sound human. “Tell me the stories you told of me,” he says.

 

“We told of your strength, and your bravery. Of your loyalty and kindness. Your capacity for love. Your sacrifice for the safety of your people.” Clarke doesn’t let her voice tremble, even though it feels like they’re standing on the precipice of something great and terrible. She isn’t quite sure when she and Bellamy started holding hands, but it tethers her, makes this real in a way that it couldn’t be otherwise. 

 

“You told the story of a protector. One who never seemed to fit within people, and yet dedicated his life to helping as many as possible. A martyr who never quite met the expectations his earthly life.”

 

“Who shared the name _Linkon kom Trikru_ ,” says Bellamy, and the puzzle pieces are fitting together, but the big picture seems too wild, too unbelievable. 

 

“Stories are never just stories,” declares Lincoln, voice definitive, “Not here.”

 

“You’re not a ghost,” states Clarke.

 

“No,” agrees Lincoln, “It’s a lot bigger than that. With the stories, the understanding of _Linkon_ changed, his aspect shifted to reflect that. To reflect me.”

 

“You’re a god.” Bellamy knows, deep down, what this is, where this is going, but he needs confirmation.

 

“So are you.”

 

———

 

It’s dark by the time they get back to Terra, and the hush of night feels right. The careful quiet of the darkness, the faint illumination of the stars which guides them out of the trees and into the city. It’s normally bustling at all times, the last vestiges of the human race lends itself to a city which never sleeps. 

 

It’s fitting. Seeing people might break the careful unreality of the world. 

 

They walk together back towards Clarke’s living quarters. They live about ten metres away from one another, but Clarke’s place is slightly closer and they have to talk. When she opens the door, Bellamy makes straight for the kettle that Raven had made her. He gets out mugs as she gathers some mint leaves from the plant she now has growing in her window. She’s never told him that it’s there because it settles her, reminds her of their journey back North. She doesn’t have to.

 

They sit in the window, holding mint tea close, and when they finally catch each others’ eyes they can’t help the rush to hold back laughter. 

 

“So,” starts Clarke.

 

“Yeah, god,” sighs Bellamy, and then instantly winces.

 

“I mean,” she laughs, “Yeah, so I hear. _Gods_.”

 

The night is starting to fade out of black back into the deep blue that precedes the dawn. They have three or four hours, if Clarke were to guess. And Bellamy probably needs sleep before teaching tomorrow, she should really encourage him to head home.

 

“I sort of. I knew something was happening, I knew something was different,” admits Clarke.

 

“Yeah, me too. I still didn’t. Didn’t quite make the leap to actual godhood, or anything though.”

 

“Wow, you fool, it was so obvious.”

 

“Yeah, real rookie error.”

 

There’s another pause, and Clarke lets herself lean slightly against him. 

 

“At least we’re in this together,” she tries, carefully keeps her eyes fixed on what’s beyond the window, instead of risking looking at his reflection.

 

“We’re always together,” he says gently, “That’s the rule, remember.”

 

She leans against him slightly more, and maybe this is huge and terrifying and world-changing (yet again), but she’s not in this alone. Bellamy wraps an arm over her shoulders, and pulls her against him more solidly.

 

“Remember when we thought it was kind of awkward that people worshipped us?” he teases, and she huffs a laugh against his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Awkward doesn’t really cover this.”

 

———

 

Clarke walks the streets of Terra, searching out a present for Bellamy. It’s his birthday soon, according to the remaining Ark records, and though things between the Blake siblings are better than they were, she isn’t sure they’ll do anything to celebrate. She’s determined to get him something, wants to remind him that he’s important in so many more ways than military strategy. She’s been trawling through the main marketplace for hours now, and nothing quite seems right.

 

She stops at a café, gets a cup of sweetened apple tea, and settles down into an alcove for a break. She wears a hood, to hide her distinctive hair, because she doesn’t need Bellamy hearing that she’s spent all day at the markets three days before his birthday, because with a deep hood there are no expectations on her from the people milling around. She’s not a leader or a healer (not a god) but just another faceless person in the crowd. 

 

The café is fairly busy, as people sit on heavy cushions, and gossip. Just living ordinary lives. A group near her chatter in English, and as she looks at them, she recognises Ark survivors. A large group, maybe eight or so, none of whom she knows very well. They were different stations, so she knows little of their life on the Ark. They’re Arkadians, and yet she knows almost nothing of their experience on the Ground. It’s weird, that they can share something so huge, and still be so alien to one another. If she’d stayed in Camp Jaha, maybe things would be different, but she didn’t, and it isn’t.

 

“It was kind of magic,” says one of the girls solemnly, and holds her mug tightly. “It felt like magic. Like some, I don’t know, mystical fate thing.”

 

“Wow, you listen to the Grounders too much, Mel,” laughs one of the other girls, and though they all smile, no one laughs with her. 

 

“We’re not better than them,” says Mel sharply, “And it _was_ like fate. Divine intervention. Fucking something.”

 

One of the other girls nudges Mel encouragingly, and Clarke realises she’s holding her breath. She makes herself take a sip of her tea.

 

“I was the only one there, the only survivor. And I’d tried to climb to safety, but it was impossible to scale. I couldn’t go up or down and I was so _tired_ , and I thought that was it. I’d stay awake as long as I could, and when I fell asleep I’d fall and then it’d be done.”

 

“And that’s when you heard them?” prompts the girl who’d nudged her.

 

“That’s when I heard him. I don’t know why, but his voice echoed louder than the others. And for a moment I wasn’t afraid anymore. So I started calling out, because there was no way I’d survive without help, and they peered over the cliff and I just. I just knew I’d survive.

“Sterling went first, tried to climb down the cliff to get to me. I grew up with Sterling, he was one of my best friends. I wish he hadn’t tried.” She stops, a quiet, melancholy pause. It’s something Clarke can recognise, this ache of loss. “He didn’t make it. It. I don’t think anyone could have made it. I think it was impossible.”

 

“But you’re still here,” says the girl who’d laughed at her. It was meant to be pointed, Clarke thinks, not hesitant. She lost her conviction pretty quickly.

 

“Yeah, but that’s different. I don’t think any normal person could have done that. Could have saved me. I was too far down and the angle was too difficult. But he came down the cliff and held me and I _knew_. I just knew. We’d make it, and I was safe now. I was still halfway up the fucking cliff and I was safe.”

 

“He’s a hero, don’t get me wrong,” says another girl who hasn’t talked yet. “And I’m not saying he didn’t save you, because of course he did. But he hasn’t got, like, _superpowers_. I grew up on Mecha, and he’s a good person, but I would definitely know if Bellamy Blake was special.”

 

“He is special,” says Mel, and before her friend can respond, “No, really. I don’t know. Maybe the Ground changed him, but he is. It shouldn’t have been possible, the more I think about it, the surer I am. The _physics_ of it doesn’t work. I’m not, like, worshipping him or anything. But I’m glad he’s here, and he’s helping. Bellamy saved me.”

 

There’s a faint susurrus around the café, _Belomi_. Clarke’s not sure if anyone else hears it. She looks down at her own table and drinks her tea. Thinks hard about presents, and does her best to tune out the conversations happening around her. Tries to ignore the humming in her blood that says it’s not over.

 

———

 

“Isn’t it super weird?” asks Monty one day, as they walk past some teenagers with the dyed red hair and heavy eye make-up which marks followers of _Wanheda_. Clarke feels her heart beat faster, her blood run hotter for the few seconds it takes, their mere proximity rushing through her. Lincoln says they’ll settle into it, that each worshipper won’t hold such sway over them as their believers grow, as they gain power. They both tried to point out that they could do with less power these days, but Lincoln was uncompromising.

 

“I’m not sure ‘weird’ is the right word,” Clarke starts, and Bellamy snorts.

 

“I did say ‘super weird’,” says Monty, whip-quick.

 

“Ah, but you didn’t say ‘super fucking weird’,” counters Miller, and Monty concedes with a laugh.

 

The conversation gets derailed, and they arrive at Raven’s workshop, where they’d planned to collect her for lunch. She’s got some genius project in the works, and this is the best way to ensure that she actually eats food. Bellamy and Miller volunteer to go get her, because they’re the least likely to get distracted and join her in working instead. 

 

Monty has his eyes closed, face turned up into the sunlight, his smile soft and gentle.

 

“Yeah,” says Clarke to him quietly, “It’s super fucking weird.”

 

———

 

Bellamy doesn't really get mornings off very often, so when he has the chance he lounges in bed until it’s nearly noon, sometime reading a book, sometimes just letting himself drift between sleep and waking. Today, however, it’s barely even sunrise when he hears the beat of people running past, frantic shouting just far away enough that he can’t make out distinct words. The commotion is coming from Clarke’s, he just knows, rolling straight out of bed and struggling into shoes as he races for the door. He grabs his jacket, a weapon, not yet fully awake, but awake enough. 

 

He’s not yet halfway to Clarke’s when he sees her, racing at the head of a group of panicking people. She catches the morning light, almost glows with it, and she looks determined. Not the fierce, warlike determination of _Wanheda_ , something else, something more serene. It reminds him of a lullaby sung in the woods, back in the beginning of it all, as the acid fog was retreating, and Atom was whimpering. 

 

He catches up to the group quickly, and immediately is filled in. There’d been some kind of accident and the child of the elected representative from _Geza_ is dying. She fell, says someone, fell straight onto something sharp, caught it with her neck. She’s bleeding everywhere, and there’s no way she can survive, the doctors said they should say their goodbyes. Instead, Clarke runs through the city streets to the site of the accident.

 

He catches up to Clarke.

 

“If they haven’t moved her, there’s a chance,” she says, determined. “It’s not much of a chance, but I’m going to do everything I can.”

 

“I knew that much,” replies Bellamy. “If anyone can save her, Clarke…”

 

They burst into the representative’s courtyard together, and Clarke becomes wholly focused on her patient. Bellamy does his best to help, calls out for whatever she says she needs, tries to distract the child whenever she stirs. Mostly he tries not to get distracted with watching Clarke. She hums while she works, cleaning off blood, making neat little stitches, carefully painting a thick, greenish paste, bandaging with bright white gauze. The noon sun is high and bright, and bar Clarke’s humming the courtyard has remained hushed, the heavy silence of a watchful audience. The girl, whose bronze skin had been turning an ashy grey, has started to regain colour, starkly contrasting with the bandage around her neck which is almost gleaming in the bright sun. 

 

With Clarke’s hands supporting her, ever so gentle, the child sits up. Her parents fall to their knees weeping, their hands instantly clasping hers. Clarke smiles at them, and she looks so soft in the warm sunlight, still in her white nightdress, hair still mussed from rolling out of bed all those hours ago.

 

Bellamy can hear the promise in her voice, as she assures them all that there will be a full recovery. The solemn silence of the crowd gives each word an echoing resonance, even the faintest sound seemingly amplified.

 

“ _Ai ge fis op_ ,” whispers the girl wonderingly, and stretches an arm out, brushes her fingers against Clarke’s cheek. 

 

“I cannot thank you enough, _Klark_ ,” says Nefra, the _Geza_ representative, “ _Ai ouyon yu klin_.”

 

“You owe me nothing,” assures Clarke, and then, when Nefra looks like she might insist, “Nothing. I just wanted to help. I’m glad I could.”

 

When she stands, having given them advice on the healing process, Bellamy curls an arm around her in support. She leans her head on his shoulder, as they walk away, suddenly exhausted. The crowd parts for them wordlessly, and Bellamy takes note of the wonder in the eyes of all who look at Clarke. 

 

“Back to bed?” asks Clarke, “To sleep away the rest of your day off?” and before Bellamy can react to that suggestion she breaks off to yawn hugely and stretch out her arms.

 

As she does, Bellamy hears a murmur, “It just doesn’t make sense. She’d lost too much blood. It’s not possible, surely?” He looks over, and Jackson is frowning, lost in thought.

 

Clarke turns back to face Bellamy brightly, done stretching. “I should probably get dressed, huh?”

 

“I don’t know, you could start a trend,” he teases, and decides to let himself enjoy the rueful smile that Clarke shoots at him, actively decides not to wonder how she cradled a girl covered in blood but her nightgown remains pure white. 

 

———

 

By that evening, the stories abound. The girl had died, had lost her head, her throat had been slit, but they called for a healer and _she_ came. All she had to do was lay hands, and the girl sat up, alive and well.

 

It doesn’t really matter what actually happened. The girl was dying, and then the girl was alive, and the story spreads and spreads and spreads. 

 

_She_ came, and she didn’t come alone, so the story goes.

 

———

 

The late summer arrives, days long and golden and slow. They lounge in a field by the outskirts of Terra, each caught up in their own activities, each relishing their time together. 

 

“It’s kind of funny,” says Raven, pausing from the board game she’d been playing with Monty and Murphy, “I never thought growing up that there could be any kind of fate, or higher power. And yet here we are, and two of my friends are other people’s higher powers.”

 

Bellamy looks up from his book, and Clarke catches his eyes from where she’s been sketching while leaning against his legs. They haven’t discussed it with anyone, how could they, they’ve barely discussed it with each other. Some days it weighs on them, the days when worshippers’ chants seem to echo in their heads, when each inhale seems laced with incense. Some days it feels like a fever dream. It never feels like something to casually drop into conversation. 

 

“I never thought growing up that we’d reach the Earth,” counters Miller thoughtfully. He’d been cloud-watching with Harper, Jasper, and Octavia, keeping up a half-hearted commentary of the sky, occasionally heckling the board game. Now he leans up on his elbows. “We were never supposed to land. And here we are on the Ground.”

 

“Maybe it’s related,” starts Clarke, and then pauses. 

 

“Sounds like you’re talking fate,” comments Murphy. “That never ends well.”

 

“Not fate, exactly, just.” Clarke stops, looks to Bellamy again. 

 

“There wasn’t room on the Ark for gods,” says Bellamy, “But the Ground needs gods.”

 

“Or gods need the Ground,” jokes Clarke, and they share the smile of an inside joke.

 

“Both, either,” agrees Bellamy, “I don’t think Lincoln’s ever been clear.”

 

The wind whistles, and they remember where they are, who they’re with.

 

“What did you… What?” asks Octavia horsely. Their friends look awkward and concerned, and it’s hard not to feel the distance which gapes between their understandings. Between their knowledge. 

 

“It was. I. Lincoln used to teach me different mythologies, religions. I didn’t mean…” he stops, unsure of how to finish that sentence.

 

“There’s more room for fate, for religions, outside of the Ark’s society,” says Clarke, “That’s all.” 

 

There’s another pause.

 

“Yeah, that’s true. Doesn’t mean it’s not kind of funny,” decides Raven.

 

“‘Funny’ is definitely one word for it,” says Monty.

 

“Super fucking weird,” chorus Clarke and Bellamy together, and everyone laughs. Punchline or not, it’s meant sincerely.

 

———

 

There’s talk of a field trip into the meadows nearby for the children, examining and identifying plants in their natural habitat. It would be fine, except many of the refugees are distrustful of anything beyond Terra’s walls. Radiation is poisoning over half the world, and the only place they know to be safe is this haven. Straying beyond the city limits isn’t technically dangerous, they made sure not to build on all the land available to them, leaving space for industry and agriculture, let alone future expansion. Still, fear is a powerful thing, and increasingly people are hesitant to leave Terra. 

 

“It’s a shame,” says Kane tiredly, “We don’t want to encourage this kind of paranoia. And it’d be a fun way to teach the kids. But we can’t force their parents to give permission.”

 

They’re at a teacher meeting, or, technically, Bellamy is at a teacher meeting. As is her norm, Clarke followed him in to sit in. She may not be an official teacher, or even part-time like Bellamy, but she spends enough time at the school that she’s got pretty regular attendance at there weekly meetings. 

 

“It’s _such_ a shame,” says Bellamy, and Clarke squeezes his shoulder. He’s obviously been looking forward to the trip. “We can’t force anyone, but we could maybe talk to some of the really resistant parents about the risk? Try to convince them?”

 

Kane sighs regretfully. “Maybe it’d be better to cancel this trip, and organise a different trip you could bring them on?” he suggests, and Bellamy nods to concede the point. 

 

Two of the other teachers, Gaia from _Trikru_ and Riley from Farm Station, exchange a look. 

 

“You’d be the one going?” asks Riley, looking between Bellamy and Clarke, “I know it was scheduled on one of your days off.” 

 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” says Bellamy.

 

“I’m better at recognising plants than him anyway,” teases Clarke, and he rolls his eyes at her, amused. 

 

Riley and Gaia look at each other again, considering.

 

“That… That might change things,” says Riley. 

 

_“Yo na laik ouder? Yo na shil emo op?_ ” asks Gaia. Her eyes are bright and her voice is fierce. The air in the room feels suddenly clearer, the light brighter. 

 

“I’ll always protect them,” says Bellamy, holding her eyes, voice calm and reassuring. A promise.

 

“It’s what he does,” says Clarke. 

 

She’s aiming for wry, but the words echo in their bones. 

 

“I’ll talk to some people,” says Gaia, “This field trip seems like a good idea to me.”

 

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t go ahead,” agrees Riley.

 

Kane hums consideringly, but the matter is dropped and the meeting goes on. 

 

They don’t get confirmation for another week, but all complaints against the field trip have been revoked. No one gives a reason as to why, but no one really needs to. Bellamy and Clarke know. It resonates inside them, another truth to learn, to inhabit. 

 

———

 

When Lincoln sees them next, he quirks a smile. He reaches out to Clarke, gently tilting her head up so he can stare deeply into her eyes. “Interesting.”

 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and call this more odd than interesting,” says Clarke. “Hi Lincoln,” she adds pointedly, “How are you?” 

 

“How do you think?” he asks wryly, the whisper of leaves in every word. 

 

“Like you’ve forgotten what personal space is?”

 

“It’s probably a mortal concept, Clarke,” teases Bellamy, as Lincoln releases her chin. He takes the two steps to Bellamy, looks into his eyes. 

 

“Oh, duh,” says Clarke, “Yet another thing we can let ourselves forget about.” It’s a joke, ostensibly, but they do find themselves forgetting more and more boundaries, these days. They have to remember to differentiate between what they know, and what they could or should know. There are things they can feel are correct through every atom of their beings, but couldn’t ever explain how or why. It doesn’t lend itself to easy conversation.

 

There are other, more noticeable, differences. Clarke dropped a knife, caught it by the blade, and didn’t bleed. There was a faint white line, but for barely a second. While out with their friends, Bellamy had talked longly of a light breeze to blow away the heavy heat, and one sprang up as he talked. It’s nothing that’s been picked up on, not yet, but it weighs on them. It’s hard to remember than constant feeling of vulnerability that the Ground had imbued them with, now that they seem invulnerable. Hard to remember what it felt like to desperately want, when they can talk almost anything into existence. Hard to empathise with their friends, who are still stuck in that position. (Still mortal.)

 

“Come on,” wheedles Bellamy, “Aren’t you going to share with the class?”

 

Lincoln hums, debating. Leaves whip around him for a second, a brief susurrus caused by no earthly wind, and while it says no words, something in them knows that Lincoln heard something more. “Dualities,” he says, like that explains everything, “Trust the two of you.”

 

“I’m going to be the most forthright god ever,” decides Clarke, “Just to make up for everyone who speaks in riddles and half-sentences.”

 

“Suit yourself,” says Bellamy, “I’m definitely going to go for vague riddles. Cross the river and a kingdom will fall. Real classic oracle doublespeak.” 

 

Lincoln smiles at their fond henpecking. “Come on,” he says, gesturing deeper into the woods, “I have more to show you.”

 

———

 

"I can't believe we’ve been assigned homework," bemoans Clarke, falling back against the back of her chair. The afternoon sunlight has warmed her quarters nicely, and despite the constant hubbub of Terra, her kitchen is quiet and calm.

 

“What, like it's not really cool,” says Bellamy, not looking up from the waterspout he's made of his mint tea. His brow is furrowed slightly in concentration, and his hair is getting long again, curls falling into his eyes. His hands cradle his mug, and Clarke has found herself distracted with counting the freckles on them one too many times today.

 

“I know you're technically a teacher yourself, but you’re _such_ a teacher’s pet,” says Clarke with a grin. 

 

“What, are you saying you weren’t?” asks Bellamy, quirking a disbelieving look at her before turning back to his tea. “Pike used to talk about how good you were at Earth Skills all the time."

 

Clarke laughs wickedly, “Oh I was terrible at Earth Skills. Wells, on the other hand, was the best in class.”

 

“Are you saying you used to cheat?” asks Bellamy, trying for scandalised but grinning at her with an unexpected delight.

 

“Bellamy,” she says, eyes wide and solemn, blinking with over-exaggerated innocence, “Would I ever?”

 

He pretends to ponder it, and while he’s distracted, she concentrates hard, gestures up with her hands, and splashes his waterspout of lukewarm tea into his face. She crows with victory, as he splutters.

 

"I hope you realise this is war," says Bellamy, wiping the tea from his face to the sound of Clarke's laughter. His hair drips tea back onto his cheeks, and when he pushes it off his forehead, his curls stick up awkwardly.

 

"Oh no, whatever will I, a war god, do?" she says, voice still bright with laughter.

 

"Lose," suggests Bellamy. "I'm the smart one, remember."

 

"You're never going to let that go, huh?" Clarke says, and it almost feels like they've found some sort of balance. Here, in her quarters, just the two of them, they can finally laugh without feeling guilty. They can let the hopes, wishes, dreams, prayers fall from their shoulders and rest, if just for this moment. They are both people and deities. They are themselves. 

 

———

 

"You'd think less Arkers would have converted," says Raven. It's a festival day, one of the more popular gods brought to Terra, and there have been feasts all day.

 

"Would you?" asks Murphy. "Because I distinctly remember Jaha's pilgrimage. And I’m sure you remember all that zealotry with the chip." 

 

"Not to mention the Final Tree," adds Miller.

 

"None of those were gods," argues Raven, but she sounds less certain. 

 

"It was all still belief," starts Clarke.  


"And belief is what matters, " finishes Bellamy. 

 

Raven hums thoughtfully. "I didn't mean it as an insult," she points out, "It's not an intelligence thing. I'm not saying we're better than the Grounders. That we should know better, anything like that.”

 

“Kind of how it’s coming across,” says Emori sharply, and Murphy pulls her further into his side with the arm curled over her shoulders.

 

“Sorry, I just. It’s weird, right? That beliefs can change so quickly. That they could all just see the world so differently so quickly.”

 

“The world _is_ so different. The Ground is different,” says Miller, and Clarke and Bellamy nod in unison. 

 

As they watch, the feast is paused for a toast. Hardy from Alpha Station gives a speech, finishes with a fervent prayer. As the crowd cheers, and raises a toast, Bellamy and Clarke can smell sweet spices on the air, feel the rush of warmth and strength flood their veins.

 

“I wish I could believe that there was someone looking out for us,” says Raven after a moment, subdued in a way she hasn’t been for months.

 

Clarke reaches out, and holds her hand. Bellamy rests a hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” says Raven amused, “Someone looking out for us other than the two of you.”

 

She doesn’t get the joke, but that’s okay. There’s time enough.

 

———

 

They’ve spent the day in the woods with Lincoln, practicing, learning, growing. Dusk is on them, lending a smokey quality to the light. They walk back, close enough to brush together with each step, not quite holding hands. 

 

“Surely there’s not that much to do in the woods?” calls out the sentry at the gate, Mahuika, one of the refugees who came in boats from across the oceans. Her mother suffers from chronic back pain and a failing memory, and Clarke happened to be referred to her in the infirmary. She only comes to the infirmary once a month now, to share a pot of tea with Clarke, swears she feels better for weeks afterwards. Abby uses it as an example in teaching the new medics about the power of the placebo effect.

 

Clarke suspects it’s more complicated than that. _Dualities_.

 

“There’s more to the woods than meets the eye,” calls back Bellamy, and Clarke elbows him gently.

 

“Glad you had fun,” says Mahuika, voice loaded with innuendo.

 

They’re always together. Everyone knows. It’s part of who they are. They’re partners. They’ve been apart too many times, and they’re going to stay together this time. From now. From forever. 

 

“Give me some credit,” says Clarke, and Mahuika laughs.

 

———

 

This is how it goes. There are no stories, until there have always been stories. There’s no in-between, and it’s all in-between. You’re not a god, and you have always been a god. This is how it goes.

 

Maybe they should have thought about the religion of Ground before they did, but it was always going to be too late.

 

———

 

They both have a day off, and instead of having a lie in, Bellamy finds himself at Clarke’s door in the early hours of the morning, letting himself in with the key she had wordlessly given him as soon as she’d been assigned quarters. 

 

He wanders in, and finds Clarke in her bedroom, sketching as she sits up in bed.

 

“Hey,” he says, and she smiles up at him, putting her sketch-book off to one side.

 

“Hey. What’s up?” 

 

He smiles, proud despite himself. “I’ve gotten it.”

 

She rolls her eyes, “Well that really cleared things up.”

 

It’s early enough that the light outside is more yellow than white, and it makes Clarke look golden. Gives the room a warmth and beauty and peace. A safety.

 

“Check it out,” he says, instead of explaining. He closes his eyes, and _thinks_. When the snowflakes brush his cheeks, he opens his eyes again. 

 

Clarke’s kneeling up on top of her bed, enraptured by the snow which swirls in the centre of the room, slowly drifting outwards, falling slow and soft and utterly impossible. 

 

“Wow,” she breathes gently, reaching out a hand to brush the snowflakes which are spiralling towards her. Her arms are bare in her nightgown, and Bellamy can see the hairs on them raise in goosebumps as the snowflakes kiss her skin. She still looks golden and warm in the morning light. “You’re pretty good at this,” she says, turning her focus back to him, instead of the snowstorm he’s called into existence in the middle of her bedroom.

 

“Practice makes perfect,” Bellamy says. “Besides, I’m a teacher’s pet.”

 

Clarke laughs, and reaches out towards him instead. 

 

———

 

They’re washing the paint off after an art class, colourful smudges on their faces the inevitable result of fingerpainting with the littlest classes.

 

“Your freckles are clearer than they used to be, you know,” says Clarke conversationally.

 

“Sunlight does tend to have that effect,” says Bellamy, concentrating on a particularly stubborn blue streak on his chin. 

 

“Clearer, not darker,” says Clarke, “Brighter, if anything. Like stars.”

 

“You always say they’re like stars,” demurs Bellamy, unthinking.

 

Clarke pauses, keeps the sudden heavy emotion of it out of her voice when she agrees.

 

That night she lies awake, thinking about Bellamy sitting next to her in their encampments months and months ago, telling tales of a girl who healed everything she touched instead of killing it. She thinks of what Lexa had said, and finally she understands the shape of it all.

 

She thinks of Bellamy and the night sky. The laughter and questions and earnest belief of children.

 

That’s the key. Belief. 

 

———

 

Battle and tactics, healing and protection. They’re always intertwined. Their aspects don’t, won’t, can’t matter. They’re always together. It’s part of their story.

 

It’s part of all of their stories. 

 

———

 

“Frankly you’re just being greedy at this point,” says Roan.

 

Bellamy ignores him pointedly. There’s little that annoys Roan more than pretending to ignore him. The mural is almost a silhouette, a dark outline, not perfectly filled in. It would look like messy painting, but Bellamy was born in the stars. They may look different from the Ground, but he’d still recognise them anywhere. The figure is painted on the side of one of the larger squares, not far from the school, with a play area built into the centre. It faces the playground, almost like it’s watching out over it.

 

Flowers litter the ground in front of the mural. 

 

It’s hardly the only altar in the city, but it’s one of the simplest. (One of the most popular.)

 

(Perhaps not as popular as the unofficial temple across the street from the hospital. The altar is a relief of a woman against a background of stars, holding stethoscope and scalpel. It’s always busy with the sick or their relatives, constantly echoing with faint humming and sweet songs.)

 

———

 

The old man grins, and Bellamy can't help wanting to smile back. He can’t understand why it took him so long to notice him, given the sheer presence the man exudes, let alone the vibrancy of his clothes.

 

Clarke is distinctly less impressed, but Clarke’s rarely impressed. 

 

“Please,” he insists again, “Just call me Nancy.” He drops into a funny little bow, and Bellamy watches the corners of Clarke’s mouth tick up despite herself. 

 

“Apparently I’ve been hogging you,” says Lincoln, “An odd complaint, given I was told to bring you up to speed before you met any of the others.”

 

“Don’t take it personal, boy,” says Nancy, “I just want to make sure I’m their favourite.”

 

Lincoln rolls his eyes good-naturedly. It’s not really the kind of divine bickering that would make the mythology books, but the easy camaraderie of two people who are good at appearing to be the friendliest person in the room. 

 

“I’ve already picked my favourite,” says Clarke glibly, “Sorry.” She leans into Bellamy as she says it, and he automatically throws his arm around her for support. Ducking his head as he tries not to smile too obviously. _Together_ echoes in the air around them, in their very beings. Intrinsically woven into their mythology, their souls, their existence.

 

“Well ain’t that sickly sweet,” says Nancy. He shakes his head slightly as he looks them over. “And they’re dualities. Typical.” 

 

It's hard to think that deification will ever become something that could be _typical_ , but Bellamy’s starting to accept that there’s nothing he can’t adapt to. 

 

“C’mon then,” says Nancy, waving Clarke over to him, Lend me an arm, help an old man navigate these woods.”

 

Clarke shares a glance with Bellamy before she heads over to him and links arms. 

 

“And where are we going?”

 

“Oh sweetheart,” he laughs, “I’m just the welcoming committee! It’s time for you to meet the others.”

 

“Oh good,” says Bellamy in an undertone to Lincoln, “The others. We’re meeting a whole group more. Great.”

 

“If it helps, you’ll probably make a better first impression on them than you did on me.”

 

Bellamy resists glaring at Lincoln’s smirk, but barely. “What a vote of confidence, thanks, and to think I was worried.”

 

———

 

They’re in Bellamy’s quarters. It’s silent, but a comfortable silence. They’ve both been wrapped up in thoughts since they left the others. It’s been real for days, weeks, months, and yet suddenly it all feels different again. Inescapable. This is their eternity now. The future stretches out, expanding indefinitely. 

 

“It’s not a full pantheon,” says Clarke.

 

Bellamy hums in agreement, gestures for her to continue as he warms up milk to make them both hot chocolate.

 

“Even with all the gods brought by all the citizens of Terra, it’s not a full pantheon. There are gaps that could be filled. Only with minor deities, probably, but. There are gaps.”

 

Bellamy waits until he’s finished with their drinks, bringing them over to the table which Clarke sits at before he asks, “What are you thinking?”

 

“Someone for inventors, someone for morals. A trickster god.”

 

“Someone for thieves, someone for balance. A party god.” 

 

“Exactly,” says Clarke, smiling softly. Her hand sits on the table, and she reaches slightly with her fingers, all graceless impulse. Bellamy takes her hand instantly, just as thoughtless. “I’m not sure if it’ll work, exactly,” she starts, and Bellamy smiles and squeezes her hand.

 

“We might as well tell the stories.”

 

———

 

There’s an audience for every story, if you look for it. The Ground is thick with belief, and thirsty for gods. 

 

“Let us tell you another one,” says Bellamy to the crowd, and there’s a murmur of agreement. “This one is after _Linkon_ ’s sacrifice, about what happened to his lover.”

 

The bonfire burns brighter with every word, and Clarke sits tucked into his side, weaving stories from truths, together, always together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Their dual aspects are wanheda and klark emkomstas (clarke who comes from the stars) which is battlefield warfare and healing respectively, and troujan (stelt gona means hidden warrior, and spai would just be spy) and belomi emlaikstas (bellamy who is made from the stars) which is tactical warfare/espionage and protection, particularly of children.
> 
> Trigedasleng is either grammatically correct, or made as close to as possible with the help of the linguistic and vocab articles in http://the100.wikia.com/wiki/Trigedasleng
> 
> I'm [ on tumblr](http://www.islandoforder.tumblr.com) if you want to talk.
> 
> \---
> 
> “We, um, prayed to the final tree.”  
> “Please, tell me, teacher.”  
> “Bellamy, he is made of stars.”  
> “Hey, friend.”  
> “I am healed.”  
> “I owe you.”  
> “You will be there? You will protect them?”


End file.
